


Blow it Up

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond, Q, and controlled explosions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow it Up

**Author's Note:**

> For HAP, who requested Bond and Q and explosions as dates.

It starts with an injury to Bond. Not a newsworthy event in MI6, and even less so when it’s a shallow but long gash along his back. It requires stitches just to make sure it stays closed, and Moneypenny rolls her eyes when James offers to show it to her.

“When I want to see a damaged back, I’ll just wander into the mens’ lockerroom for men I actually find attractive.”

“You love me,” Bond replies.

“I can’t shoot you,” Moneypenny returns.

“You didn’t shoot me the first time.”

“I’m happy to try for another.”

“Bond,” M says from his office doorway, eyebrows raised in a way that could read as amusement or aggravation depending on how he decides to set his face, “getting stabbed by the lady you were already romancing not enough fun for you?”

“Moneypenny is always a bonus.”

“Get away from my desk,” Moneypenny orders, fighting a smile. “Quickly.”

Bond steps into M’s office with a smile over his shoulder and nods when he turns and sees M holding up a bottle of scotch. “Other than the injury, it went quietly,” he says. “But you already know that.”

“Of course I do,” M says. “I called you up for a congratulatory drink and to inform you that until medical says your back is properly healed, you’ll be assisting Q.”

“Excuse me?” Bond asks. He just manages not to throw back the scotch at the news of such a ridiculous assignment. It’d be a bit on the nose, he thinks, and wholly unbecoming a double-o.

“He wants to blow up a few things. Requested any spare field agent who might want to have an opinion on matters. I thought of you.”

Bond narrows his eyes and takes a slow sip of his scotch. It’s very good. No reason to waste it. “Is this punishment for the Silva situation? For going off your radar?”

“Of course not,” M says, though his face says it is. “You’re injured, in need of something to keep you busy, and I fear if we let young Mister Q too close to the fuse, his hair will go up in a puff of smoke.”

Bond smiles at that. Punishment it may be, but he and M can find common ground over the kid who’s creating amazing weapons and making them both feel ancient. “It would allow us to budget a new Quartermaster.”

“He’s just shy of twenty-five,” M says. “The first name on the list should anything happen to him, belongs to a young woman of nineteen.”

Bond finishes his scotch in one quick swallow. “Suppose I should pop into the labs, then.”

“If you would be so kind.”

*

Q is marking up plans for a gadget Bond can’t quite make out from the blueprints when Bond walks up beside him. “007,” Q says.

“Q,” Bond replies. “M said you were looking for a field agent.”

Q glances up, over the tops of his glasses, and gives Bond a sweeping look that makes him feel like he’s being measured to fit a mold he can’t picture. “For the explosives tests?”

“Yes.”

“I was expecting a junior.”

“Well, you’ve gotten me.”

Q gives him another look. This one less measured and more amused. He’s obviously weighing possible comebacks, and Bond waits him out, strangely curious to hear whatever insult Q might muster up. “Well, I suppose we should get to work,” Q says, and Bond finds himself weirdly disappointed but smiling.

*

Q sets up explosives in a small, glass-walled cube. He walks out of the cube, secures the door, hands Bond a pair of goggles, and pulls a detonator from his pocket. “Ready, 007?”

“Do your worst,” Bond replies.

Q sets the detonator on the lab table they’re standing behind. He picks up a hammer and swings it in a perfect arc, destroying the detonator with an efficiency that Bond finds impressive as well as confusing. “The bomb has a three-foot radius,” Q says as he sets the hammer back into place. “And you’ve just destroyed your detonator—”

“Wasn’t me,” Bond replies.

“It will be in the field,” Q replies. “Given your track record. So tell me, how does one detonate a bomb with the detonator crushed and no way to shoot through the walls?”

“This is your explosives test?”

“Can you think of a better one?”

Bond really can’t. He doesn’t admit it outright. Instead, he stares at the bomb in the see-through cube and asks, “Will there be a delay to the explosion?”

“Three seconds,” Q says. 

Bond reaches around Q, grabs a flat-head screwdriver, walks to the cube, opens the door, stabs the screwdriver deep into the guts of the bomb, closes the door, and ducks and covers behind the table, pulling Q down with him just as the explosion goes off.

“Not bad,” Q says as they both raise their heads and watch the smoke rise in a column.

“What else have you got?” Bond asks.

*

The next day, Q places the bomb in a cubicle with an inch between every slat and swallows the detonator.

“I could gut you,” Bond offers. He darts out his left hand, then actually goes for a grab with his right. Q ignores the left, blocks the right, and even manages to get Bond into an arm lock that Bond has to fight to break. 

“Tick tock goes the bomb clock,” Q singsongs.

“Delay?” Bond asks.

“None this time,” Q says.

Bond pulls his gun, sights, and shoots. The bullet nicks the slats, but it hits the bomb dead on and bits of the cubicle go flying.

Q pulls an umbrella from under the table and opens it, much to Bond’s quiet amusement. “I was hoping you’d do that.”

*

On day three, Bond walks into the bomb room and is informed the detonator has been hidden somewhere in the room. The room is completely empty except for the cubicle, the lab table, and the two of them and their supplies. 

“On your person?” Bond asks, reaching out and sliding a thumb against the inside of Q’s left wrist.

Q watches him do it, then smirks at Bond. “You’d be so lucky.”

Bond smirks and turns from Q to survey the room again, letting his thumb slide down Q’s wrist once more before he lets go. He doesn’t miss, in his peripheral, the way Q bites on his lip and takes a shuddering breath.

Well. That could be fun.

Seven minutes later, Bond finds the detonator under a loose tile in the far corner. “Well?” he says, holding it up.

“Press the black button, and it goes dark. Press the green, and it explodes.”

Bond pretends to think it over, then presses the green button. He can hear Q’s laugh over the explosion.

*

Day four, Q hands him a lump of C4 and a couple of wires. “Do your worst,” he says.

“Within reason?” Bond asks. The way Q grins at him, he gets genuinely excited for the answer.

“The table is blast-proof and bullet proof. I’d like to try and break it.”

“You know, in my line of work, this could be seen as flirting,” Bond chances, thinking of the way Q had worried his lip the day before.

“If you’re questioning whether or not it is, you’re fairly rubbish for a double-o.”

The explosion doesn’t break the table, but it makes a sizable dent. Q runs his hands over it, turns to face Bond, and beams. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

*

On Day five, Q takes the detonator and slides it behind the waistband of his trousers. “The bomb blows in eight minutes,” he says. “How quickly can you blow me?”

“Really?” Bond asks.

“I’ve heard your pick-up lines,” Q retorts. “Don’t throw stones.”

Bond steps in, cups the back of Q’s head, and tips his head so he can kiss him. “Eight minutes, you said?”

“Seven minutes and fifty-one seconds.”

“Well,” Bond says, breathing against Q’s mouth. “Let’s get to work.”

Bond blows at five. Q detonates at 7:46. Bond presses the bomb so it’ll go dormant, and Q pulls the detonator from his hand, tucking it into Bond’s waistband, and grinning as he starts his own run.


End file.
